


Art

by buftie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Incest, M/M, Wincest - Freeform, paint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 16:36:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buftie/pseuds/buftie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam was always the creative one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Art

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to bend Sam's psychic canon a bit because I can. Wrote this Nov 2008, edited it before posting here.

** Paint **

_"He's the artist - the things he can do with a brush" -Dean, "Hook Man", S1_

_Lawrence, Kansas; 1990_

It's routine, their spot at the chain-link fence. Sam usually arrives first, anxiously rocking on his heels, chewing at the inside of his lips and cheeks until Dean shows up. Sam is never entirely sure he will and his heart flutters in relief as Dean strides past him, tapping his shoulder in word to follow suit. The two then walk home.

"I drew a picture today," Sam announces proudly, elongating his steps just slightly to keep in tread with his brother. "Wanna see?"

"Okay," Dean replies with false enthusiasm, expecting to see the organized crayon scribbles he'd seen Sam create during endless hours of babysitting. Sam digs around in his backpack, pulling the paper out. There's a gust of wind and Sam tightens his grip on the sheet, causing it to crease and wrinkle. When then zephyr passes, he hands over the drawing. Dean has to admit, he's impressed. Sam has come a long way since crayon scribbles - he wonders when he stopped paying attention.

It's a marker drawing of Sam and Dean on the far left of the paper looking joyous. In the middle is their father throwing what appears to be salt at a ghost, drawn old-fashioned Halloween style - rounded top, squiggly bottomed, and black circle eyes. Dean smiles.

"You drew this?"

"Uh-huh," Sam nods, grinning modestly.

"All by yourself?"

"Yep," Sam grips the straps on his backpack to keep himself from squirming due to fear of criticism.

"It's great, Sammy," he smiles at his younger brother. "I think we should leave it on the fridge, so Dad can see it?"

"All right," Sam beams, apprehensive of his father actually viewing it, but terribly excited at the same time.

"Dad?" Dean calls when they enter the home. Silence greets them. "He must be working," his tone gloomy as he gives a sideways glance to his sibling. He hangs Sam's picture on the fridge before making them both peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The picture seems to stare back, making Dean all too aware of how absent his father is all of the time. Just him and Sam; they only have each other.

\- - -

_Alburnet, Iowa; 1999_

"Art? You're taking Art?" Dean asks with a snort as he looks at Sam's new schedule.

"I didn't sign up for it," he snaps with a slight blush at his brother's comment, snatching his schedule back. "I just got put into the class. Apparantly I need more credits for extracurricular classes. Maybe something from the last school didn't transfer right, I dunno."

"Whatever, dude."

There's an uneasy pause, a question and answer dangling between them.

". . . Is Dad coming home tonight?" Sam asks.

"No, but he asked me to meet up with him later for this job. It's not too far."

"You could just go with him, you know. I'm sixteen. I can stay home by myself."

"You know how Dad feels about us being home by ourselves, Sammy boy. I gotta stay here. For now."

"Yeah, whatever," Sam mumbles, sketching a rickety country house onto the pad of paper next to the phone and abruptly dropping the pen, sulking off to his room. Dean sighs, rubbing his hands over his face. He can't lie; he loves going hunting with his dad. Dean feels he's born to do what his father does, to take up the family business so to speak. It feels right. But it doesn't make the emotion of guilt any less apparent. He knows Sam isn't gung-ho about killing ghosts and demons and that Sam knows he's detached from the rest of his family because of it. Dean feels just as strongly about taking care of Sam as he does hunting.

Tossing serious thought aside, he stands, getting ready to leave when he spies Sam's sketch. Something tells him to take it, so he rips the paper from the pad and shoves it in his pocket.

~

Warm calloused fingertips roaming over his lean body. He can't get his breath out in anything but tiny, hopeless gasps because it feels so _good_, nuzzles at his face and hands all over. The touch is familiar; it reminds him of lazy summers when he and Dean would shove at each other's shoulders playfully walking down to creeks and lakes and rivers. These calloused hands are Dean's hands, brushing over his shoulders, flittering over his hipbones skin against skin, painfully sensual. But it's Dean, oh God it's _Dean_ and it's so fucking _wrong_, but he doesn't want it to stop.

He's shaking and trying not to mutter, breathe, say, scream Dean's name; the teasing is too much and he needs a release, he needs Dean's hands where they shouldn't go before he's shaking more violently than he knows he naturally can. Dean's saying his name, quiet, but harsh - a perfect tone that makes him unbelievably hard.

"Sam. Sammy, wake up," he's shaken awake and brought to full consciousness by the flick of the light. He's suddenly intensely aware of the erection hiding underneath the covers and feels a blush stain his cheeks as he remembers exactly why he's got the damned thing in the first place.

"What? What's wrong? Is Dad okay?" his voice is still heavy with sleep and he needs to focus on something other than the fact that he somehow really wishes his brother would jerk him off right then and there.

"Yeah, yeah he's fine, he'll be home soon - wanted to make sure we got rid of that poltergeist - but," Dean brings out Sam's house sketch, smoothing out the wrinkles and tapping the paper, "why'd you draw this house?"

"I dunno," Sam replies, rubbing grogginess from his eyes. "I dreamt about it the other night, had a nightmare."

"Nightmare? You didn't tell me about any nightmare. What happened?"

"In that house, someone, they died. . . Something killed them, I'm not sure what. I can't remember. Why? You seriously didn't wake me up just to ask me about a stupid doodle, did you?"

"This is the house Dad and I went to tonight. . . You dreamt that house specifically?"

"Yeah, I guess. The house looked like that," pointing to the crinkled drawing. He really wishes Dean would leave so he could hide beneath the covers and get rid of the shameful boner he'd acquired while sleeping - while dreaming about his older brother.

Pursing his lips thoughtfully, Dean places the house back in his coat pocket. "Go back to sleep, Sammy."

Sam turns over, burying his face into his pillow until Dean closes the door to his room. Closing his eyes tight, he jerks himself off, embarrassed; the thing that makes him most excited is pretending the hands stroking and tugging at him belong to the one person they shouldn't.

\- - -

_Brady, Washington; 2001_

Surprisingly, Sam has found he actually likes Art and takes it again his senior year of high school. He's especially good at painting, which also happens to be especially meditative. He needs something calming to do until he can go to college.

Knocking on his door frame, Dean pops his head in, "What're you working on there, Sammy?"

"Just a project; putting a family member on canvas. It's kind of stupid. . ."

"Oh? Is it me?" his eyebrow raises in a zany sort of way and he enters the room.

"It's not finished, okay? I-I kinda have this thing where I don't really like anyone seeing my work until it's completely finished."

"Well then it's a good thing I'm not just anyone," Dean walks over to stand behind Sam and look at the canvas. "Hey, that's real good." He claps a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam smiles modestly.

"It still needs a lot of work, but. . ." he trails off.

"It's coming along great. Besides, you picked the best family member to paint. Always knew you were smart. Listen, Dad and I are going on a little hunting trip. We won't be back for a few days. Think you'll be okay by yourself?"

"I'll be fine, Dean. I think I can manage being home alone. You and Dad have fun. See you when you get back." Sam begins painting again before Dean can respond.

"See ya." He pauses a moment, contemplating whether or not to give his brother a final parting clap on the back or an obnoxious hair tussel. He decides to leave with just words and goes out to the car where their father is already waiting.

Sam peeks through his curtains to see the car pulling out from the driveway. It disappears down the street.

\- - -

_Bodega Bay, California; 2002_

Sam can't lie - he's desperately excited that summer is ending. After all that's been said, fought, screamed, done, he's more ready to disappear to college than ever. He has all his things packed up, ready to leave for Stanford. It takes a bit of internal wrestling, but he decides to leave his paints, easel, canvas boards, all his art supplies. While everything else is set in boxes, his collection of art material stands lonely and cluttered by the window, a half-finished painting drying. There's still a week until he has to be at school. With a calming sigh, he sits on his stool, setting up his paints. Ocean landscape isn't exactly terribly exciting - even with the small pier at Tides Wharf - but the locals and those passing through love that stuff and Sam figures it can't hurt to try and make a little extra money before he leaves.

As he organizes his supplies before getting started, he notices an oddity in his tin can of brushes. He plucks it from the collection: a group of new paintbrushes, bound together with tape, a note attached.

_Something new for college.  
-Dean_

Sam smiles sadly at the new brushes, rifling his fingertips over their soft bristles. He doesn't have the heart to tell Dean that painting would stay behind. He sets the gift aside before mussing up his normal brushes, handles stained with paint, flakes of dried colorant sticking to his hands. It's difficult not to think about, how much he'll miss his brother, how much he needs him. He knows Dean will never admit it, but the simple fact that he has participated in a heated row or two with Sam alone about him escaping to Stanford makes it clear. Dean doesn't want him to leave. Sam flicks slow, easy strokes into the waves, monotonous and time consuming to create perfection. It helps take his thoughts away from the fact that he's hurting his family by departing.

He doesn't even look away from the canvas when the wooden front door creaks open. Judging by the footsteps over the aged planking, he deduces it's Dean and not his father. Relief washes over him; he always ends up fighting with his old man.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean pokes his head into the room.

"Hey," he tosses over his shoulder. "Thanks, um, for the, uh, the brushes."

"It's no big deal," he shrugs it off. Simply part of taking care of his brother.

Sam turns and looks at his brother. As the day Sam's to leave gets closer and closer, he notices there's a look in Dean's eyes that seems to grow. It's subtle - almost not there (Sam knows Dean needs to look invincible for him) - but it's practically begging Sam to stay.

"Be right back," Dean says before meandering into the next room. Dean comes back and sets a large paper bag on the window seat next to Sam's painting station, pulling a six-pack of beer from it. Sam could have predicted such from his brother.

Dean uncaps a bottle for each of them and Sam takes his appreciatively. After all the arguing the past few weeks, the boys need to relax. Sam's grateful for this, but it brings pangs of guilt. He's going to miss Dean more than anything.

~

After a couple beers on both ends, Sam and Dean are in a stupor, laughing at what's not funny, leaning towards each other. Sam's painting is long forgotten as he sits on the stool and Dean leans against the wall, stupid, drunken smiles on their faces.

Suddenly, Dean gets serious and says, "I'm gonna miss you, Sammy boy."

Sam's wide grin, softens and he's swallowing thickly. He can't believe Dean actually said it aloud, admitted it. Without warning, Sam can feel something stirring in his gut, something that reminds him of calloused hands and stupid, horrible, so-wrong-that-they're-too-right wet dreams. His face turns serious, too before he reaches forward, cupping the back of Dean's neck with his hands and pulls his brother's face towards his own. He crashes their lips together. It's hard and desolate, but as they both fall into it, their lips find each other in a way that fits.

Sam pushes Dean's heavy jacket from his shoulders, the thickness of fabric between them lessened, Sam can't help but test his brother's lips with his tongue, hoping to gain entrance. He wants to taste Dean more than anything after the countless dreams he's had of doing the worst, wonderful things to and with his brother. Dean responds by parting his lips and meeting Sam's tongue with his own, eliciting a slight gasp from the younger man. Dean slips his fingers to the end of Sam's shirt, prompting allowance to remove the dark blue sweater to which Sam concedes. As he finally feels those calloused fingers run over his skin after Dean's own shirt is removed, he wonder's if this is a dream. But it feels so real he can't help but softly moan Dean's name before their lips meet again.

Sam leads Dean down to the window seat, both of them landing heavily on the barely-padded bench. He knows he's not drunk enough for this all to be an accident and deep down hopes it's the same for Dean.

He gets a deviously amazing idea as his fingers work their way over his brother's hip bones and Dean's hands grip at his back. He feels his own erection beginning to press against his jeans, but that doesn't matter. He's more concerned with the erection he feels coming from his brother. He unbuttons Dean's jeans and slides them down before standing and walking over to his art supplies.

"What're you. . ."

"Just wait a sec," Sam answers with a smile. He grabs the set of new brushes Dean got for him and the brush he'd been using with paint still coating the bristles. He goes back to his brother who looks interested and is waiting with bated breath. Sam takes the brush with paint on it and runs it down Dean's chest, who shudders due to the cold of the paint. At the same time, his back arches. Sam is pleased by the reaction and strokes the brush in lines and swirls and strange, beautiful, crop-circle like patterns across Dean's torso, the entire thing painfully erotic.

He releases Dean's cock from his underwear, large and hard for him. Sam feels his own cock twitch, but ignores it. He wants his brother to say his name because he can't stand how much he wants him. Sam paints on Dean's hipbones and without warning, engulfs his brother's dick in his mouth, making Dean sputter from the surprise. He's inexperienced but incredibly eager, his tongue dragging along the length of his brother, paintbrush still drawing blue-grey lines on Dean's skin, down his thighs, back up, everywhere. Dean's hips are twitching upwards hands fisting and clenching at his sides. Flicking his tongue over the head of the cock in his mouth, Dean lets out a choked moan, and Sam releases him, smiling.

Crawling up his brother's body, he discards the brush with paint on it and picks up one of the new ones, eggshell-colored bristles soft and delicate. Sliding his body against Dean's, the paint glides between them, making Sam's artwork smear and vanish. He captures Dean's lips again, heatedly slipping his tongue into Dean's mouth, taking the new brush and softly swiping it along his brother's jawline. Sam grinds against his brother, erection painful still inside his jeans. He goes to Dean's neck, nipping and sucking at the tender skin and Dean can't stand it anymore. His hands fumble with Sam's jeans, unbuttoning, unzipping, removing them.

Dean maneuvers them; he's on top now, in control. Sam's mind is reeling. It's like his dreams, but it's real and so much better than his mind ever could have concocted. Dean pins him down, nips at his neck and jawline, tonguing the red marks after. He removes Sam's underwear and grips his cock and oh _God_ Sam cannot believe it, his mind faltering with the long, perfect strokes.

Sam's sputtering moan is all it takes for both of them to need it right then and there. Dean swipes some of the paint from his chest, readying himself and Sam - tense and tight and so _perfect_. He looks his brother in the eye, questioning _are you sure?_ and all Sam can do is nod hurriedly. He's more than sure. In fact, there's not even a word for how much he wants this. Sam tightens as Dean eases a finger, then two into him. His body tenses because the feeling is oddly uncomfortable and foreign, but he wants it and knows that it's going to be okay.

Dean removes his fingers and slowly presses his member into him, large and full and Sam feels like there's no way that anything in the world is better than this. At first he holds his breath, getting used to the new sensation. When Dean starts to move, he lets the breath go in a silky, keening moan because it's phenomenal, the slow and steady movement, in and out. Sam hungrily kisses Dean; it's the only way to express this strange, misplaced feeling he's had for years, manifested in his dreams. He finds himself biting at Dean's lips and Dean's thrusting begins to pick up. It only takes a few moments until Dean's pushing into him _just right_. His body shudders and he needs release. He begins stroking at himself, but Dean quickly replaces Sam's hands with his own. Sam doesn't cry out Dean's name, he all but screams it, orgasm feeling like it's ripping him apart with ecstasy as his eyes roll back and tighten shut. Another plunge and he feels Dean coming inside him, making his breath hitch.

They lay there, on the desecrated window seat with grey-blue paint smothered over them, beer bottles, and no clothes. It's an unequaled moment, but Sam doesn't know when his father's coming home - if he is at all before Sam leaves for Stanford. He doesn't want this moment to end any time soon. He knows the longer he lays there that the guilt and mental retribution will set in.

He nudges Dean away from him and sits up. Dean is obviously knackered, drunk, spent. Sam chews on his lip and cheeks like he would as a kid when worried. He needs to clean himself up. He needs to clean this mess up.

He showers. When he's done, Sam sees Dean's fallen asleep, naked and covered in paint and dried cum. Sighing, he covers his brother with a blanket from the house's hall closet and goes to bed even though it's early evening. If their father returns, it'll look like Dean just had a little too much to drink and there'll probably be no questions asked.

Sam reasons that this shouldn't have happened at all, but since it did, it happened at a time when he'd soon be gone and maybe it was a good thing. He was sure Dean would find some way to put distance between the two of them if Sam wasn't going to be leaving. If not, Sam would just spend all of his time at the pier, watching tourists and annual visitors pass through for meals, gifts, and bathroom breaks. He isn't sure he can handle being around Dean with the knowledge of what they did together.

~

The tension is unresolved and the brothers have barely looked at each other since they fucked. Sam wants to say something, but isn't sure he wants to receive Dean's defensive attitude and wise-ass remarks. But he's going off to school and he's got to say something, anything, before he goes. Who knows when they'll see each other again?

Who knows _if_ they'll see each other again?

Sam refuses to dwell on that one for even a millionth of a second.

"I'm not bringing my art with me," Sam blurts, sitting at the dining table, eating cereal and milk when Dean comes home from his job working at the gas station.

Dean freezes because Sam has just talked to him. They haven't said a single utterance of anything to each other since their drunken incident. He then takes a moment to digest it and wonders why the fucking hell he got Sammy those brushes at all if they won't be used.

"What?" is all he can think to say, turning to his brother who's studying his breakfast-dinner as if he's going to be tested on it.

"My art. . . I'm not taking my art with me. I'm not going to paint or draw or anything. . . anymore," Sam stares into his cereal, clinking the spoon against the bowl.

"Why the hell not, Sammy?" frustration lacing his words. Sam knows he shouldn't be happy to hear that tone in his brother's voice, but hearing Dean call him _Sammy_ makes his heart feel lighter.

"I. . . just. . . I dunno. I decided it a while ago. . . Before you gave me the brushes," he whispers the last part because it makes images of skidding the bristles and paint and lips and teeth and tongue all over his brother's body and his mind is on overload.

"But you're good at it," Dean reasons, looking at Sam intensely. There's something else behind Sam's admission in Dean's eyes that he's not saying. Sam can't help but wonder if Dean is taking this personally. Dean got him those nice, new, clean brushes and suddenly Sam quits. He thinks he'd take it personally if he were Dean - he knows his brother will die before admitting that Sam has hurt his feelings if that's even the case as Sam is assuming it is.

"I know, but I think I'm just done. That's all. Why? Does it really matter? You can return the brushes if you want, get your money back." Sam is feeling increasingly uncomfortable.

"No, no keep them. Just forget it. Never mind," Dean's face is set, stony and tense before he walks out of the kitchenette and retires to his room. Sam sighs into his cereal. He doesn't want to end things like this, but he leaves for school the next day without seeing his brother beforehand.

Regretful about not saying his goodbye and even more so that he didn't patch things up with the person who means the most in the world to him, he begins the four and a half hour drive to Stanford - car packed and heavy with his belongings - and doesn't look back.


End file.
